


The Tempting and the Tempted

by MaverikLoki



Series: TnT [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Isabela still hasn't found pants, M/M, More angst, Slash, demons!, oblivious flirt!Hawke, why is everyone glowing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders can barely stand the elf, but he's always been too curious for his own good (he's a cat person, after all) and since that disaster with Feynriel, Fenris has been acting strange even by Fenris standards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tempting and the Tempted

**Author's Note:**

> **Now with a[shiny new podcast](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4238637) by Kess!**
> 
> Based on the prompt:  
>  _If going by the game itself, it seems that there's not really that much demonic tempting and promises of power and whatnot. Seems the demons in the Fade only really pop their head in once in a while to go "hey, changed your mind yet?"._  
> 
> _Maybe Merill is even right about them being mostly neutral beings, and the general view of demons as evil is more because of what the affected people do as an excuse while under the influence._
> 
> _Doesn't stop Fenris from being absolutely certain that all mages are a hair's breadth away from being tempted and 24/7 spammed with demons whispering in their ears. And of course he does! The lyrium in his skin allows him to drop partially into the Fade whenever he uses it._
> 
> _Little confused mages are a dime a dozen, but a lyrium-encrusted elf without a drop of magic, regularily popping into the Fade? That's interesting!_
> 
> _Meaning that whenever Fenris uses his lyrium, he gets the demonic equivalent of "looking for a good time, sailor?"_
> 
> _So of course he thinks mages are tempted all the time. After all, he is!_

No.

It was a simple word – two letters, one syllable – and Anders promised he would say it this time. He'd even practiced.

“ _Maker,_ Hawke,” he groaned. “I have a clinic to run! I can't go traipsing after you every five minutes!”

Alright, so that wasn't a “no”, exactly, but it was the closest Anders had come to that word since he'd met Hawke. He folded his arms across his chest and stared down his fellow apostate, pleased with how firm he sounded.

“It's not my fault you're the best healer in Kirkwall,” Hawke wheedled, “ _and_ the best-looking!”

Stay firm, Anders.

But then Hawke, the bastard, _looked_ at him with those large eyes and a lopsided grin, and Anders knew he was doomed.

“You could learn a healing spell or two yourself, you know,” he grumbled even as he snatched up his staff. Hawke's grin widened, and Anders' stomach certainly did _not_ flip, nope.

It seemed that the word “no” was no longer in his vocabulary when it came to Hawke, and he waved to Lirene to let her know he was leaving. Her answering nod was the exasperated kind, but Anders swallowed down his guilt.

“But then _I_ would be the best-looking healer in Kirkwall,” Hawke teased, grinning at Anders over his shoulder as he led them out of Darktown, “and I'm already so very busy!”

It was unfair how Hawke did that, reeling Anders in with those cheeky words in that _glorious_ voice, only to back away coyly, still tugging Anders along.

“Just promise me we're not bringing the elf-shaped glow-stick,” Anders groused. “He's been crankier than usual lately, and I'm not exactly his favorite person to begin with. If he's coming, I'm going right back to the clinic. I swear it!”

Well done, Anders. You almost sounded like you had some dignity left.

“Ah, well. About that...”

Hawke turned those large eyes on him again, and Anders knew he'd already asked the elf. Worse still, he knew he'd be going along anyway, and happily.

Maker damn that man.

* * *

 He'd never admit it, but Anders didn't mind having Fenris nearby in a battle. The elf was fast and frightfully strong, and he fought like he'd rather lose a limb than let anything so much as _breathe_ on Hawke. Which made Anders wonder what Fenris would do if _he_ “breathed” on Hawke (among other things), but that wasn't the point.

He didn't even mind all the walking, not really. For the most part, Fenris kept to himself and, if it weren't for the glares Anders would get every time he brushed Hawke's arm or made him smile, Anders wouldn't have even noticed he was there. He was even rather pleasing to look at when he was scowling at something else.

Oh sure, there was the occasional _abomination this_ or _evil mages that_ , but that just became background noise after a while.

No… what bothered Anders on this trip was what happened at night.

 

Anders jerked awake, sweat at his temples and an aborted scream in his throat. He breathed in gulps of night air and stared, unseeing, up at the stars.

It took many such gulping breaths before he turned his head and caught the elf's stare.

Fenris was wide awake, sitting by the fire and watching Anders coolly. Still panting, Anders flushed, wondering what he must have looked and sounded like in the throes of his nightmare.

“Sodding stare at someone else,” he grumbled, turning onto his side. He could feel Fenris' eyes on his back, but he pretended to sleep until dawn's light seeped through his eyelids.

 * * *

 It wasn't until the next day that Anders realized there was something seriously wrong with Fenris. Well, more so than usual, anyway.

He probably wouldn't have even noticed if he didn't have to spend day and night with the sulky elf (and _wow_ , did that make Anders want to rethink his life), but the elf had the haunted look of the deeply exhausted. His eyes were puffy and dull, weighed down by heavy bags, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of his greatsword.

And Fenris was generally quiet, true, but Isabela teaching raunchy songs to a tone-deaf Hawke was the sort of thing that usually coaxed a chuckle out of him. As it was, he barely even blinked, green eyes drawn inward.

Frowning (and cringing at a particularly sour note – _Maker_ , Hawke!), Anders sidled up next to Fenris and “accidentally” brushed his arm, sending out a questioning tendril of magic. The elf had stubbed his toe yesterday, apparently, and he hadn't been sleeping well, but aside from that he was perfectly healthy.

Subtle as he thought he’d been, Fenris jumped at the contact, his lyrium markings flaring like a dog raising its hackles. His glare was venomous, but Anders smiled innocently and shrugged. The elf huffed and walked ahead, trotting past a giggling Isabela and a still-singing Hawke.

Behind them, Anders watched the tense line of Fenris' back (instead of the firm lines of Hawke's backside, as per usual) and wondered.

* * *

Night two.

Nightmares? Check.

Waking in a cold sweat? Check.

Creepy elf staring at him? Maker-fucking- _check._

“Do you _ever_ sleep?” Anders groaned as he sat up and brushed back sweat-lank hair. Sleep was a loss, and he doubted he could fake-sleep convincingly, not with that creepy-elf-stare and not with his hands shaking like they were.

“Do _you_?” Fenris countered, and he sounded as wrecked as Anders felt.

Fair point. “Ah, well.” Anders gestured vaguely at his head. “There are a few things about being a Grey Warden that you can't run away from.”

Fenris hummed, and even that sounded judgmental. Anders bristled.

“Well then. Since we’re both awake, what crawled up your arse and died this time?” he asked conversationally.

Fenris glared, but that was nothing new. “At least I don't have a staff up _my_ arse,” Fenris growled. “Or another mage's.” His gaze cut to Hawke's sleeping form meaningfully, and Anders flushed.

“Oh please,” Anders huffed, lips quirking. “I bet you'd be much less cranky if you had a 'mage's staff' up your arse every now and then.”

Fenris choked, and he pressed his knees together automatically. “Keep your 'staff' to yourself, abomination!”

“I didn't mean _me_!”

Fenris' lips pursed, and his gaze cut to Hawke again before flitting away, almost too quickly for Anders to notice, if he hadn't been expecting it. There was something uncertain, almost fragile in Fenris' eyes then, an expression the elf probably thought was hidden by night's shadow. Anders smiled through a familiar ache, but it wasn't a gentle smile.

“Is that why you left him?” he asked, digging. “Because you were afraid of his ‘staff’ or because he was a mage?”

Maker, but he’d never understand how someone could _willingly_ give up Hawke.

“That is none of your concern,” Fenris growled.

“Of course it is,” Anders snapped. “He’s my friend, and you hurt him.”

Fenris looked away, either unable or unwilling to reply to that.

“So what's wrong with you lately, anyway?” Anders asked. “I'd have thought you were out of things to brood over, but if anything you've doubled-up on the broodiness the past few weeks.” He watched Fenris' jaw muscles flutter. Tapping his chin, he pretended to consider. “Ever since... Feynriel, I think. Ohh, did the Fade not agree with you?”

“Leave it, mage,” Fenris growled, and Anders knew he’d hit his mark. Metal clinked as a gauntleted hand curled around his sword's hilt. That should have been Anders' cue to shut up, but he rather liked knowing that he could get under Fenris' skin too. That and Hawke had been tight-lipped about what had happened, and life in the Circle (and drinks with Varric) had turned Anders into a terrible gossip.

“What, did a desire demon get into your pants?” Anders continued, resting his chin on his palms. “Quite a feat, considering how little room there is in there to begin with.”

Fenris sat stonily still.

“Did she turn into Hawke and serenade you off-key?”

Silence.

“Or maybe Isabela? Getting into someone else’s pants is _literally_ the only time she’d be inside a pair.”

Nothing.

Anders grew bored and laid back down.

“Whatever it is,” he said around a yawn, “it doesn't matter. As your healer, I command you to stop moping and get some sleep, already. Hawke needs us both in top shape for tomorrow.”

Fenris huffed but didn't move, at least not right away.

Deciding he didn’t care, Anders closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, his hands folded over his chest. Eventually he heard shifting, the scrape of gauntlets and the creak of leather as the elf stretched out by the fire. He opened one eye to peek at him, but the elf didn't fake sleep any better than a Grey Warden.

 * * *

The next day, Hawke did what Hawke did best: he led them into trouble.

Trouble, this time, took the form of a nest of very big, very nasty, very _angry_ spiders. Then again, they also turned out to be very _squishy_ spiders, as Hawke demonstrated with one casting of Maker's Fist.

Thank the Maker for ranged spells, or Anders was certain there'd be spider goo in his clothes and his hair after that. Isabela was less lucky, but then she had less clothes to get goo _in_.

Once the battle was in full force, Anders' healer instincts had him keeping an eye on Fenris. The elf moved much as he always did, but he seemed slower somehow, heavier, more... solid?

Then Anders realized that the elf wasn't glowing. He cursed under his breath.

Since using his lyrium markings was as instinctive to him as breathing, Fenris was either actively suppressing them… or they’d somehow stopped working.

“Andraste's knickers!” Anders spun away from a particularly plump spider and its too-friendly fangs, turning to shoot a jet of fire in its face. Hawke leapt to his side and shot a complement of ice, freezing the monster to the spot for Anders to smash in the next moment.

“We make a good team,” Hawke said over the shattered bits of spider, his voice breathy with exertion and his smile wild and triumphant.

Anders swore his stomach did not flutter at that either. “I suppose we do,” he replied, and _Maker_ , but he wanted to kiss the grimy, goo-soaked fool.

“ _Fasta vass!_ ”

Anders jumped back, wondering how the blighted elf knew what he was thinking, only to turn and see that, no, he’d been swearing at the spider currently giving him one hell of a love-bite. He bolted towards the sound, trusting Isabela and Hawke to deal with the last of the vermin (which they soon did, judging by the shriek and squelching noises that followed).

By the time Anders had dashed to Fenris’ side, the spider had been reduced to muck, bits of flesh and ichor flying through the air as Fenris continued to pound it, one-handed, with his greatsword.

“Easy there,” Anders called out, brushing back the ruined flaps of Fenris’ armor to examine his ragged shoulder. “I think the spider-paste is past the point of threatening you, now.”

“ _Venhedis_ , mage,” Fenris grit out, wincing as Anders touched raw skin. He yanked his arm away and clutched it to him. “No. I will have none of your filthy magic, abomination!”

Anders grit his teeth.

Behind him, Isabela tutted. “That bite looks nasty, Fen,” she said, her teasing tone softened with worry. “And I know a thing or two about nasty bites.”

“Everyone alright?” Hawke called out as he trotted over to them. There was a brittleness under his expression, under his concern, that said he’d overheard Fenris.

“Everyone would be,” Anders snapped, matching the elf’s glare, “if a certain elf would stop being so self-righteous for half a damned minute!”

“Fenris, let the man heal you,” Hawke ordered.

Fenris looked like he wanted to protest, but, in the end, he sagged under Hawke’s glare, sighing and offering his arm to Anders, resigned like a lamb to the slaughter. Anders rolled his eyes and guided Fenris to sit on a slab of rock. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how to say no to Hawke.

“Thank you,” Anders said, with only a tiny bit of a sneer.

Fenris scowled. What a surprise.

Glancing at Hawke and Isabela, Anders waved away the hovering pair. “Go. Loot or whatever. I’ll handle this.”

“Looting _is_ my favorite,” Hawke told Isabela, who hummed in agreement.

Anders ignored them and focused on his scowling patient. After cutting away the tattered flaps of his armor, Anders gathered light and warmth into his hands and pressed them to the gaping, jagged skin, letting his magic trickle into the wound, staunching the bleeding and knitting broken muscle and skin back together. At the touch of magic, Fenris’ markings glowed like a firefly. Anders felt him shiver.

“Ah, so they _do_ still glow. Good to know.”

Fenris winced, his brows an upside-down “v” of worry as he glanced at Hawke at the far side of the cave. “They – you noticed.”

Anders hummed, sitting back and wiping his blood-slick hands on a scrap of cloth. “So are you going to tell me what’s going on with you, now?”

Anders watched Fenris’ gauntleted fingers fidget in his lap. “It is nothing,” he said, subdued. “I thought to merely… to be more cautious.”

“How?” Anders scoffed. “By setting aside your best tool? Nearly getting yourself killed? What if we’d been fighting something a _bit_ harder to squish?”

Fenris glared at the mage, but there was no real venom behind it. “Stop acting like you don’t know,” he said, his tone more desperate, more pleading, than angry. “You should know very well what troubles me. Now leave it.”

Anders wracked his brain for a fitting response to that: “…what in the Maker’s nose hairs are you talking about?”

He caught a look of genuine surprise from Fenris, and then Hawke was clapping them both on the shoulder and declaring the day a success, derailing any and all previous conversation. Anders eyed Fenris as they packed up to go, amazed by the look of bewilderment on his face.

* * *

 This time, Anders didn’t even bother laying out his bedroll. He was tired (exhausted, really), but he had the most stubborn of patients to tend to.

Fenris eyed him warily as he approached, brows furrowing when Anders plopped onto the ground beside him.

“I thought I told you to keep your staff to yourself,” the elf said, which startled a laugh from the mage.

“Don’t worry. My staff’s been put to bed for the night,” Anders wryly replied. “All broody elves are safe.”

Fenris smiled thinly, still looking uncomfortable.

Anders waited, counted Hawke’s and Isabela’s breaths to make sure they were asleep. He got a sense that Fenris didn’t want to talk about… whatever-it-was while Hawke was around.

“Alright, so,” Anders began, rubbing his palms together. “To sum up, something is clearly bothering you, you’re being too much of an arse to deal with it on your own, and you seem to think I know something about it when, I assure you, I have no idea what in the Maker’s _bloody_ name you were talking about.”

Fenris looked insulted (well, he always did when Anders said something) but also confused. He opened his mouth a few times around aborted syllables, only to gust out a sigh, running his hand though electric-white hair.

“I am _not_ weak,” he muttered, almost savagely, to himself. “I am not.” Fragile green eyes said that he desperately needed to believe that.

“I’m… happy for you, but that doesn’t clear anything up.”

Fenris growled in frustration and turned away, his jaw muscles tight. Anders studied his profile, the elegant curve of his jaw, the proud nose, the full lips, all outlined in silver moonlight. He hated how beautiful he looked like this, a symphony of elegance and torment painted with silver brushstrokes. He wondered if this was how Hawke saw the elf years ago, back when he’d watched Fenris as worshipfully as Anders watched _him_. Maker, but he _hated_ the blighted elf for throwing something so precious away.

He sighed. What a mess.

“Fenris,” Anders said, starting again. The elf’s ear twitched, but he did not look at the mage. “What happened in the Fade?” This time, the question was genuine, as was the concern beneath it.

For a long moment, Fenris said nothing. Then, slowly, like a cresting wave, he spoke with a voice jagged with emotion, “Which time?”

Anders sat back, trying to parse that answer. “What do you mean?” he asked, tentative. “I thought you only went to the Fade when Feynriel…?”

He trailed off when the elf started shaking his head. “You do not understand how these markings work, do you?” he asked. It was another genuine question, and somehow, they’d stumbled into their first civil conversation.

Will wonders never cease.

Fenris bared the underside of his arms and the lyrium lines that curled and twisted there. Anders’ hand twitched in an abortive motion to touch them. Fenris saw but didn’t move away.

“No, not really,” Anders admitted, shrugging. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

He determinedly didn’t think of the way his skin crackled blue whenever Justice simmered under his skin. This was nothing like that. It _had_ to be nothing like that.

“Using the lyrium in these markings is, according to Danarius, like walking with one foot in this world and the other in the Fade.”

Anders had never considered that. “Fascinating,” he murmured.

“Yes, I suppose a _mage_ would think so.”

And there it was.

Anders gave Fenris a flat look but didn’t rise to the bait, not this time. “So you’re saying that, every time you glow you’re partly in the Fade?”

Fenris nodded.

Anders tried to picture that, remembering his Harrowing, his dreams. The he _smiled_. “So in other words, you draw your power from the Fade, almost like a mage?”

Fenris looked at him as though hoping to murder him with his stare alone, but Anders laughed. He’d hit a nerve, possibly _the_ nerve.

“And, what?” he purred. “This is you angsting over how you’re so much like the thing you hate the most? Oh, this is too good!”

“I am no mage!” Fenris snapped. “I defy the demons! I –!” Fenris choked on the rest of his words.

Anders’ laughter died out when he saw that Fenris was shaking. “Demons?” he asked, surprised. “You go _that_ far into the Fade when you…” He waggled his fingers at Fenris’ tattoos helpfully. “…when you do your glowy thing?”

Again that look of confusion. “What do you mean ‘that far’?” the elf asked.

Anders suspected they were talking in circles. Knotted circles, at that.

“Hold on,” he sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “How often do you run into demons?”

“Every time,” Fenris replied, shrugging as though that should be obvious.

Clamping down on his growing horror, Anders asked, “And how many demons at a time?”

“I cannot tell,” Fenris answered haltingly, looking more and more discomfited. “They tend to crowd me.”

Anders stared, trying to make sense of this. He’d accuse the elf of lying if not for the lost look in those green eyes.

Looking inward, Anders turned to Justice.

 ** _His lyrium sings_** , the spirit answered, sounding unusually pensive. _**I** **t is... hard to ignore**._

Amazed, Anders shook his head. “The spirits are drawn to all that lyrium,” he murmured.

“I…” Fenris stared out at nothing, looking suddenly pale. “And… how often do _you_ run into demons? And Hawke?”

Anders shrugged. “It’s pretty rare. Usually a mage has to actively seek _out_ a demon.”

“Then how do you explain Feynriel?” Fenris replied, his tone accusing. “This can’t be – Why would you lie about this?” His hand inched towards his sword.

“I’m not _lying_ , Fenris,” Anders countered, more startled than insulted. “ _Maker_. Feynriel was a Somniari. Very rare and very _powerful_. But even he didn’t get… _jumped_ by demons every time he went into the Fade!”

Fenris’ throat muscles worked, and the hand he wiped over his face was trembling.

For a moment, Anders tried to picture it, what it must be like: the fear of a mage increased tenfold, without all the training and brow-beating of the Circle, impossible to trust anyone, even himself.

“Maker,” he murmured, brown eyes soft, almost pitying. “Is that what you think it’s like for me? For Hawke? For _all_ of us?

Fenris’ silence was all the answer he needed. No wonder he thought mages were so dangerous.

Anders shook his head. It was suddenly hard to hate the shaking figure in front of him.

Clearing his throat, Anders went on, softly, “You said you defy the demons, but… something changed to make you more afraid of them, afraid of your abilities and _yourself_.” Fenris closed his eyes but said nothing, looking pained. “You gave in to one, didn’t you? In Feynriel’s dreams?”

And just like that, the hate was back.

“You _bloody_ hypocrite!” Anders had to stop himself from shouting. “You talk about the _danger_ we mages are to the world, but _you’re_ the real threat!”

“Mage,” Fenris growled in warning. His shaking hands clenched into fists.

“ _You’re_ the one who should be locked in the Gallows!” Anders hissed.

A snarl was the only warning Anders got before he was flat on his back, the air knocked from his lungs and a hand around his throat.

“ _I’m_ the threat? Here I thought you had given in to the inevitable,” Fenris rumbled. Above Anders, the elf was a shadow lined with glowing, pulsating lyrium. “But you were even weaker than that! You weren’t hounded, coerced, or tortured! No, you _willingly_ took a demon into your body and let it corrupt you!”

“He’s not a demon!”

Justice bristled, roiling under Anders’ skin, which started to fissure and crack with blue light.

 _Not now!_ he told the spirit, fighting him back.

But Fenris had seen Justice brimming under the surface, and he _laughed_. “You see? _Weak_!”

“I am _not weak_!” Anders shouted. His fist connected solidly with the elf’s jaw, knocking his head to the side. Fenris snarled and held him down, slamming the mage’s wrists into the dirt.

As they glared at each other, skin crackling with blue fire, Anders realized that Fenris had said the exact same thing earlier.

“Whoa, whoa, why’s everyone glowing?”

As groggy as Hawke sounded, he wasted no time in hauling Fenris off of Anders and shoving him back. The elf didn’t resist, and when Anders caught his eyes again, there was still hate there, but it was directed inward. He suspected Fenris saw much the same.

“Honestly,” Hawke sighed, shaking his head at the pair and wiping the sleep from his eyes. “I can’t take you two anywhere.”

* * *

It was a week before Hawke let the two near each other after that, and Anders suspected it would have been longer than a week if there hadn’t been alcohol involved.

Hawke was a terrible flirt when he was drunk. He’d spent the last round of Wicked Grace with his thigh pressed to Anders’, trading double entendres and sidelong glances, only to spend the rest of the night fitted to Merrill’s side, Anders all but forgotten.

After the table had cleared, Anders watched the pair across the room, feeling hopeless and terribly heartsick.

“You know,” a deep voice rumbled behind him, and Anders turned to see Fenris leaning against the wall, watching the pair the same way Anders had. “The more I think about it, the more I find that it’s less about how often you’re tempted and more about _how_."

Anders nodded. His throat felt tight as he choked out a word, three letters, one syllable: “Yes.”

Fenris looked at him, his eyes simmering with something that wasn’t quite hate.

Anders laughed mirthlessly. “I can never say no to him, you know.”

The not-hate in Fenris’ eyes shifted, deepened. “Neither can I,” he whispered.

Suddenly Anders understood why Fenris had left, why he’d crushed Hawke when he was clearly still smitten with him: he’d lived his life terrified of temptation.

“He still loves you,” he murmured, smiling sadly. “Merrill, Isabela, _me_ … we’re all just placeholders for you.”

“Mage?”

“And he’s not a demon, you know.” Anders hated how choked his voice sounded. “You don’t… you don’t have to be afraid of him.”

Fenris pushed off from the wall and stood over Anders, his brows furrowed. “Why are you saying this?” he asked.

Anders huffed, wishing the elf would just shut up and steal Hawke away already before he fell apart completely. “I’m saying you have a chance to be happy, and you’re an idiot for not taking it,” he said snappishly, pushing to his feet. “Now move it. I need a drink.”

But Fenris blocked his way, his eyes brighter and so much larger this close.

“ _Fasta vass_ , mage, this was never about _him_.”

With a pained look, Fenris pushed past him before Anders could ask him to start making sense.

He watched the elf walk right by Hawke on his way out the door.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Tempting and the Tempted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238637) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)




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